It is the first time that I’ve attempted to seduce a police officer. In
uniform. On duty. Staring into the smoky blue eyes of Stefania Celentano,
she of the long legs, full lips and battered Fiat Panda patrol car, I
whisper “bellissima”, proffer a curcuma flower and move to kiss
her hand.
She looks alarmed. I fear I may be Tasered, which is not quite the spark I was
hoping for. But that’s the risk you take when you’re a pupil of the renowned
playboy Dr Michele Fiorentino.
As the magnificently irreverent tutor of a new course that unravels the
Machiavellian arts of Italian seduction, he has set me up with the striking poliziotta.
Now that’s what I call a practical.
If you’re going to teach a subject oozing romance, flirtation and lust, there
is no better classroom than the Caruso Hotel, Ravello.
A 17th-century palazzo, 350m above the Amalfi coast, it’s a cocoon of
frescoes, chandeliers and exquisitely vaulted ceilings. Its Belvedere
gardens sport ancient cypresses, palms and an 11th-century colonnade laced
with Iceberg roses, leading to a horizon pool, voted by a glossy magazine as
the “sexiest in the Mediterranean”.
Swaddled by mountains of vineyards and lemon groves, it’s scenic Viagra. Not
that Fiorentino, a doctor of medicine and amore, requires assistance.
“He’s the most famous gigolo on the coast,” says the Caruso’s public relations
manager, Janet D’Alesio. “He has true Latin machismo and makes women feel
they’re the only one. He travels two months a year and has girlfriends
everywhere.”
Stories swirl around the wealthy playboy: how, as a young man, he seduced a
nun; how female guests at death’s door are, within an hour of his arrival,
sipping vodka Martinis and giggling like teenagers; and how local
restaurateurs recommend him to single tourists for high-quality lovemaking.
“He’s adorable and terrible at the same time,” D’Alesio says. “If I hadn’t met
Michele, I’d have invented him.”
Blimey. It would be rude not to prepare. I turn to a serious academic text:
Mills & Boon’s The Italian Seduction. It reveals that to
deliver a “flash flood of desire” like “high-octane” Lorenzo Foscari [a
character in the book], I must kiss with “devastating intensity” and possess
a tongue with “moist erotic heat”.
I’m off to a good start. My first lesson is in the Caruso’s portico lounge
with its late-medieval arched windows, a perfect spot for Lorenzo to
“savagely explore” the “trembling” Antonia. Primed by Mills &
Boon, I’m expecting Fiorentino’s opening gambit to include bellissima,
passione and possibly moonlight. “Do you know Stevenage?” he asks. “I
had a lover there, a very famous psychologist.”
Hertfordshire isn’t the only surprise. I wasn’t expecting an Adonis, but the
deeply tanned 52-year-old is no chiselled Latin lover. He wears spectacles
and clearly enjoys pasta as much as high culture.
The doctor’s bible is Ars Amatoria by Ovid, with tactics for
winning and keeping lovers. The Roman poet recommends rookie lotharios apply
the same time and dedication to the art of the heart as sailors studying the
ocean winds. “If she doesn’t want you, let her go. There are a million other
possibilities.”
It sparks a wide-roaming discussion, peppered with nuggets of wisdom,
philosophy and amusing, sometimes eye-popping, anecdotes.
The gigolo plays a long game. He recommends that I start by studying the woman
to see if she needs a light, or perhaps a cushion.
“First contact must appear noble and purely random, otherwise you’ll be
dropped within seconds. You’re doing no more than conquering the possibility
of beautiful conversation. If she smiles, you can return to her later.”
This is about brain contact, not eye contact. I’m allowed to compliment her
elegant dress sense — “of course, it’s part of the game” — but it’s far more
important to praise her mind. I must repress my desire always to be right,
make her feel intelligent “even if she is stupid”, follow her interests
rather than mine, and listen intently “offering the precious present of
time”.
Only after several hours’ conversation may I lightly touch on her beauty.
“Slowly, slowly. You must appear an angel without sexual interest. You’re
not lying, but why show desire after ten minutes? You’ll fail because you
are a barbarian.” Or Peter Stringfellow.
In short, Fiorentino is stating the blooming obvious: don’t be scarily keen.
But he does it so poetically, dropping metaphors like clams into Neapolitan
linguine. “Many women fear love. You must surprise her like a summer storm
on a day of sunny breezes.” I am Il Postino, he is Pablo
Neruda.
He’s also a sly fox. Once he has spiked someone’s interest, the doctor
deliberately juxtaposes sophisticated and crass behaviour. “She is
intrigued,” he explains, seconds after expressing admiration for Darwin and
then a passing cleavage. “Is she with the boring, wealthy businessman? Or
the crazy beach boy? To have many lovers you must mix both. It’s part of my
armoury.”
The effect is intensified by Fiorentino’s lethal charm. I’m wary to start, but
it soon seems quite feasible that my questions are bellissime and he
is actually honoured “to express feelings to so important a journalist”. I
find myself hanging on his every word. It can’t be healthy. I need a break.
I catch the hotel’s motorboat to Positano, admiring the giddying mountains of
the Divine Coast, named after the diva Greta Garbo, who had an affair while
staying at the Caruso.
En route I pass the villa where Jackie Kennedy was rumoured to have dallied
with the stylish industrialist Gianni Agnelli, and the village of Furore,
where Roberto Rossellini, the film director husband of Ingrid Bergman,
romanced the actress Anna Magnani. My God, there’s no escape. They were at
it like rabbits.
Singing lessons should dampen the lusty heat, but my seduction training
includes the art of Neapolitan serenade — and that simply throws petrol on
the flames. My teachers, Piero Flauto, a renowned local crooner, and Franco
D’Amato, an acclaimed mandolin player, conjure up sweet weeping melodies.
After a demonstration of classics, including Torna Maggio, where
Flauto’s expression of pained ecstasy suggests he knows my dating history, I
learn some basics: deep, sometimes rapid, breathing, eyes lasered on my
lover’s, and passion, not volume. “You don’t have to be Pavarotti,” he
explains. “It’s like a relationship: sometimes nervous, sometimes intense,
sometimes sweet.”
And sometimes hopeless. I attempt O Sole Mio and Volare, and am
delighted by my own voice. I rapidly drown out the delicate plucking. It’s
like karaoke Engelbert Humperdinck. Despite that, they will return tomorrow,
supplying acoustic nectar while I harass the single ladies of Ravello.
Before then I mull over my training under a huge pink Moon. The tactics might
work for Michele Fiorentino from Amalfi, but I’m Ian Belcher from Clapham.
Sing under a South London balcony and you risk an Asbo.
Before I’m pushed out of the nest I have another seduction session. I learn
that the perfect hand kiss never touches — “that is for the Mafia” — but my
lips should be close enough for her to sense the heat of my breath, and I am
shown how a gigolo handles rejection. “It makes me try harder,” he says. “I
must discover the reason. It’s exciting.”
It’s not. I’m English. It’s terrifying. And I feel it coming as I approach the
lovely Natascia, who is reclining poolside. We spoke before, she laughed and
now I have a playboy swagger. Keeping a distance — I don’t want sun oil on
my cream suit — I remark that the pool is dazzling. Hell, I’m good.
She looks up, sighs and utters three words suggesting something less than
unbridled lust: “Ah, Mr Bean.” She returns to tanning.
Not so fast, signora. Hours later I’m underneath her balcony. Flauto
and D’Amato are playing away, I’m crooning and throwing flowers. She seems
delighted and soon we’re talking. I have no Italian, she has no English.
This could work. Natascia appears charmed by my incompetence.
And then the love doctor appears. He whispers Enchanté” and offers
a perfect hand kiss. “I am Michele. I should warn you: I’ve a very bad
reputation.”
That’s that then. Is he allowed to use French?
He’s on a roll. When I casually mention that the poliziotta
driving past has a great smile, he chases down her car and chats vigorously.
“She’s on call-out, but I told her, ‘We’re lost in your beautiful eyes.
Don’t abandon us. It’s your destiny to meet Ian’. She will return, risking
her work for the possibility of love. You must seduce her.”
O sweet Jesus. Thirty minutes later I’m staring straight into her eyes. A
crowd has gathered, blocking traffic in Piazza San Giovanni del Toro. They
think I’m being arrested. Poliziotta Stefania looks shell-shocked.
This needs frivolity. I stick the curcuma in my mouth and grin inanely.
Stefania smiles and yards away my teacher nods approvingly. He later tells
me that my “stupid beach boy behaviour opened her like a flower”.
Sadly it’s a short growing season. The petals rapidly close and she returns to
the mean streets of Ravello. Before I depart, I catch a final glimpse of the
love doctor in action. “You are a Ferrari,” he is telling a rapt Natascia.
“Not everyone can drive a Ferrari. They’re scared of its power and beauty.
At 25 I could not handle you. Now I have the experience. What do you think?”
Need to know
Stay: B&B doubles at the Hotel Caruso, Ravello (0845 0772222, www.hotelcaruso.com),
cost from £610 a night. The Dolce Vita Seduction & Serenade classes
cost from £430.
Getting there
Expedia (0871 2260808, www.expedia.co.uk)
return flights from Gatwick to Naples with BA from £140.
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